


Fight Club

by Corvid_Knight



Series: Integrated Worlds [9]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, Blood, Violence, abuse mention, my tumblr is knight-of-heart-and-art, shitty coping mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 06:24:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14349768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvid_Knight/pseuds/Corvid_Knight
Summary: In which Dave Strider celebrates his birthday and tries to deal with the fact that his asshole older brother's been removed from his life in possibly the worst way possible: by getting in a fight.There's someone unexpected waiting to wish him happy birthday at home, though—a certain troll who really doesn't expect quite as much of a mess as he just walked into, but is definitely willing to try and help clean it up.PLEASE READ THE TAGS.





	1. Chapter 1

It gets bad, after they arrest him. 

There's maybe a two-month span where you just. Don't feel anything. A period of pure _what the fuck_ while the actual fucking adults get you squared away, decide who's going to be in charge of you (that's Bro's cousin, D, if he ever told you his actual name you lost it in the goddamn numb haze that took over your mind and you'd never met him before this clusterfuck because him and his lil' bro spend a fuckton of time on Alternia), where you get to live and what shrink they'll send you to. 

You don't talk to the shrink. You don't tell her anything, you just shrug and don't look at the fucking exhibits when she tries to play show-and-tell with you. Not like you haven't seen all that shit before; you're the first one to own up to the fact that you've done porn.

With your brother. 

And other guys. 

Since you were...what, fifteen? Hell, it's not the worst thing, it was never the worst thing, it meant he didn't hit you hard enough to mark you up for a couple weeks before each _session_ and that was worth feeling dirty and disgusting after, right? It was fucking worth it. It wasn't the worst thing and it was worth it. 

Yeah. 

You know that anything you have to repeat that many times to get yourself to believe is probably false as hell. 

Fuck it. It doesn't matter. 

(You keep telling yourself that, at least.) 

But Bro got caught, in one of his shady dealings or another, and the cops found out about the rest of them (about you) and your dear big Bro went to fucking prison. Maybe for the rest of his life. Probably for the rest of his life. The shit he did to you, that shouldn't've put him away that long, but mixed in with the tapes of you and of his smuppets and of guys doing weird shit to other guys there was a half-dozen DVDs with black labels and no titles, the ones you thought of as the death shit if you thought of them at all. 

(You tried not to.) 

Snuff flicks. Some of the priciest films he ever shot, available only to the people who ordered them and had a couple grand for each copy. Those, you never had to participate in making, but you saw all of the footage. 

He made you watch it. He'd beat the shit out of you if you showed any reaction, too. Not that keeping the stoic mask on could keep away the nightmares later. 

(Stop fucking _thinking_ about it.) 

Okay, okay. You're not thinking about it. Not right now. But that's why he's gone and not coming back. It took you two or three months to really process that, two months of confusion and blank mental fog. 

You kind of wish that fog hadn't lifted, because now you're angry, almost all the time, and in pain, _absolutely_ all the time. Was it like this when he was still around? You have no idea. Maybe it was, but he kept you grounded, the ways he hurt you covered up all the other kinds of hurt, kept you distracted. 

Now, you have to find your own distractions. 

That means the fights. 

They're not legal, at least you don't think they are. Not that you care—laws suck, mostly—and the whole legality issue doesn't seem to stop there being a fight going on somewhere in the city every fucking night. You can't fight every night, though, partially because your stamina won't allow it and partially because a lot of the places don't even look at your fake ID before they tell you to come back when you're five years older and twenty pounds heavier. 

Hey, it's not your fault you're a skinny motherfucker. (Brotherfucker.) (Stop fucking _thinking_ about that.) 

Goddamnit. 

Couple nights a week. That's what you can manage. Maybe three, if shit falls just right. It's not fistfighting, either; that's never been what Bro really trained you for, even if you can hold your own in a brawl. 

No, it's swordfighting. What you think of as _strifing_. There's fewer of that type of fights than run-of-the-mill fistfights or whatever, but they're not even kind of hard to find. More dangerous, maybe, but only because most of the participants are trolls. Normal humans don't like risking a hole in their hides, but the grey-skinned, horned aliens don't seem to give a fuck. Sometimes you get the feeling that they're used to fighting to the death, not to third blood. 

You like the fights. (You hate them.) They give you a way to shed the fury, for a minute at least, and if you get marked up then so fucking what? It hurts, but there's shit that hurts worse, the scars'll get lost in the collection you've already amassed, and you heal. 

You always heal.

They start you on lowbloods. Not golds, golds don't play this game, but rusts and olives, nothing higher than the odd jadeblood or two. And people bet against you, of course—who ever heard of a human beating a troll in combat? Of a skinny human barely old enough to drink (actually not old enough to drink at all, but who needs to know that?) beating a troll in combat? 

Everyone other than a couple idiots bet against you at first, and you have absolutely no problem with that. It just means that when you win, your cut of the money is a pretty good chunk of change. Of course, eventually they start putting bets on you, but that doesn't make you take too much of a hit because there's more people coming to see you fight, the name Strider is a draw because you're good at this shit. You know how to make it a show. 

Then they start putting you up against teals. Ceruleans. Cobalts. Even a seadweller or two, although those are few and far between and so fucking easy to win against that you end up playing them like fish on hooks because you don't really want to field complaints of a boring fight. And yeah, the betting balances out as you climb your way up the blood castes, but the amount of money you get after each fight either stays steady or goes up, because everyone wants to see Strider fight. 

Not that you do it for the money. Even after paying for lawyers and fines and penalties, even after the authorities seizing any assets that could be traced to illegal shit, Bro's got more money than god and you're the only one who's got access to most of it. 

You don't know why you do this shit. 

But here you are. It's your fucking birthday and you're spending it with a sword in your hand, like you've spent most of your birthdays, but this time you're under bright unshaded bulbs, facing a snarling blueblood with hooked horns, and there's maybe a couple hundred pairs of eyes on you. You're bleeding from where you bit your lip—that doesn't count as a hit for him, you still have three hits before you'll have to drop your sword and kneel in defeat. The troll, though? You already got him in the right arm, one long, swallow cut that's still dripping deep cobalt to stain the sawdust underfoot. 

He's not going to kneel even when he loses, you can tell that right now. You've wound him up too far, taunting him, degrading him and his lusus, his ancestors, his Empress, everything that came to mind as you led him around and around the ring. Trolls this size can be scary-fast, but he's not. He's skilled, though. 

You're more skilled. You're a fucking Strider, and nobody but another Strider can best you. You won't allow anybody but a Strider to beat you.

The blue knows it, too, and that's making him so angry that you want to laugh. You're grinning, anyway, even with blood on your face you've got your teeth bared in fucking _joy,_ right now, pure stupid exhilaration and even if most of this good feeling is an adrenaline high covering up the fact that you're bruised and in actual danger, you feel awesome. 

God, you don't want this fight to end. 

But it's time to wrap shit up. You can judge the mood of the crowd without even really looking at them, almost taste the impatience in the air. Even if you want to dance, play with this asshole for awhile longer, everyone else wants to see blood.   
So you turn your next dodge into a parry, let the next block melt into a lunge, and score again, this one a slash across the shoulder that makes him snarl with pain as well as rage, makes him falter and step back. You take the opening and use it to pull your sword in, give him an even bigger grin as you run your fingers along the blade to wipe his blood off on them. 

"You're a slow piece of shit, Dyveik," you tell him, wiping your hand across your white shirt. You'd rather have blue blood showing than your own red, even if there's already smears of both. "C'mon, man, you couldn't take out a fucking grub, could you? Definitely can't touch me—" 

He screams and lunges at you, sword arcing in a path that'd cut you in half if you were still in it. You're not, of course; before Dyveik can work out what you're doing you've moved, dodged, and brought your foot up in a kick that intersects perfectly with his sword hand. Thank god for heavy boots. 

The sword goes flying. Of course it does. That move's more-or-less unblockable and as effective as fuck; Bro fucking _loved_ using it on you. Dyveik glances at it, then at you, dropping into a defensive crouch and baring his teeth. 

You could cut him right now, take third blood and walk out of here the victor again. 

But hey, it's your birthday. 

"Pick it up." You nod to his sword, lowering your own from aggressive to defensive. " C'mon, big boy, we all know you got some fight left in you."

The blueblood growls, yellow eyes never leaving you, and takes a step forward instead of away. "Fuck you, Strider." Damn, his accent sounds like he's chomping rocks as he talks. When he switches to Alternian, it sounds a hell of a lot more natural. " _Cowardly. Leave your weapon and fight like a warrior._ " 

Oh? 

" _Isn't it rude to change the rules when you're losing?_ " you ask him in the same language. You _love_ the look of stunned confusion on his face; not many humans around here bother to learn to speak Alternian. A lot of them just can't handle it, even enough to be kind of understandable. You're persistent, though, and if the words physically hurt your throat, that's a goddamn bonus. " _I see what color your blood should be._ " 

He howls at that, and charges you empty-handed as he is, even as you drop your sword and sidestep. He was expecting the dodge, is correcting for it even as he skids to a stop, but you're behind him already. His hair's pulled back in a braid, and that's just long enough for you to grab it and twist it around your hand, jerking his head to the side and slamming it against the heavy metal framework that separates the fights from the spectators. 

You think you broke his nose or something. Whatever it is, Dyveik's face is covered in blood when you let go of his hair and shove him back. 

"Third blood!" somebody—probably Matt, the guy who runs this place—shouts. 

You shake your head and wait for the cheering to die down, keeping a careful eye on Dyveik. " _First_ blood," you yell back, as soon as you can be sure you'll be heard. "This counts as a whole 'nother fight. Place your motherfucking bets." 

There's confused quiet for a minute. Then Matt's yelling something at you, there's a fuckton of shouting as people start putting money on the possibility of either you or Dyveik getting carried out, and Dyveik charges you again. 

_Hell fucking yes,_ you think, even as he draws first blood of his own by getting his claws through your shirt and into your side. It hurts, but no way is that gonna slow you down. Besides, this isn't to third blood. This fight doesn't fucking stop until one of you is on the floor, and both you and the blueblood know it. 

If it's you who ends up on the floor, you won't be getting up again. And you both know _that_ , too. 

Doesn't matter. 

Second blood is when he slams you up against the wall and leans in too close—you spit a mouthful of your own blood in his face, get your teeth in his ear while he's blinded and bite down until you taste a new flavor. There's his blood on your face by the time he pulls you loose and throws you to the floor.

The look on his face when you roll right back to your feet is fucking _hilarious._ Of course, everything seems funny as hell right now—you're pretty sure Dyveik gave you a concussion. Could be a problem later, but right now you just want to fight. And he doesn't know _why_ you still want to fight—he knows he hurt you, any sane person would've tapped out by now, but you're just coming at him, hitting him at every weak point you know. 

You're smaller than him, you're a fucking _human,_ and you're winning. 

Maybe he would've conceded, if you'd stopped to call for it. But you don't take the chance—you hit him one more time, sweep his feet out from under him when he tries to retaliate, and kick him hard in the side of the head once he's on the floor. After a second of him not moving, you bare your teeth in something that isn't a smile and turn to face the crowd. 

They've been screaming at you and Dyveik this whole time, but the tone changes now. Becomes a roar of approval, with more than a couple cries for you to finish him off, mostly in Alternian. 

And suddenly you're angry again. Suddenly you don't want to hear this. 

"SHUT _UP!_ " you scream out at them, loud enough to hurt your throat. And they do shut up. Everyone goes silent, and a couple people flinch back from the barrier as you take a step forward. "YOU THINK THIS SHIT'S FOR YOU? FUCK OFF, DO YOU HEAR ME?" 

You wipe your hand across your face, glance down at the mess on it. Red and blue, mostly yours with smears of his. Bro would be proud. 

Shit. 

You stand there for another moment, waiting to see if anyone else will challenge you. Waiting to see if you're going to fucking collapse where you stand. 

Neither one happens, and after a minute you turn and head for the door to the back room, only pausing for a second to nudge Dyveik with your toe and see if he's still breathing. 

He is. 

You think you're glad of that.


	2. Chapter 2

Matt meets you as you come through the door, opening his mouth to say something and snapping it shut again as you glare at him. You can only guess at what you must look like, if it's that easy to shut him up. 

"Chew me out later." Damn but you definitely fucked up your voice screaming at the crowd. Talking hurts. "I want my money, I want a bottle of fuckin' vodka, then I'm outta here."

"You're not getting anything until Yantis cleans you up," Matt says firmly, and puts one hand on your shoulder to steer you to where he wants you to be. 

"Fuck off." You're too tired to put a bite in the words, but he takes his hand off you like you're hot anyway. "I'll live. Money, alcohol—and a copy of the footage from that damn fight. I know you record that shit." 

"You don't even drink." 

"I made you what, a couple grand tonight? Ten?" You cross your arms and hide the wince as the movement puts strain on your chest, and scowl at him. "Shouldn't matter you if I wanna drink it, shower in it, or pour it out 'n light it on fire. Give me the fuckin'—Yantis, what the fuck?" 

Matt just sighs and walks away as the troll whose main job is patching up after fights steps in front of you and grabs your chin, forcing you to look down and meet her eyes. Supposedly, she's an oliveblood, but the bright green rings around her irises and smatter of freckles across her cheeks say otherwise. You don't know or care why she claims a caste she isn't; you just don't want to go up against her in a fight. 

After a moment of examining you, she shakes her head and lets you go. "Concussion. Broken nose." 

"Tell me something I don't know." You actually weren't sure about your nose, but touching it just confirms that she's right. "You satisfied?" 

Yantis just shrugs and turns away. "Should be at the hospital." 

She says that to you almost every time. "Yeah, yeah. See you around."

* * *

You end up in the back of a cab, a roll of bills stuffed into your pocket, trying to pour just enough vodka onto the ripped-off sleeve of your shirt to dampen it so you can wipe your cuts clean with it. You could probably do this in a more clean and less painful way at home, but fuck that. The point of this isn't to avoid pain. 

Even with alcohol soaking into open wounds, you don't make a sound. You drink some of the vodka, put the cap back on when you feel the first bit of fuzziness at the edges of your mind, and have the driver drop you off at the wrong building. There's almost no chance anyone followed you, but you might as well be safe and walk the rest of the way. 

_Safe._ That's ironic, right? You think that's ironic. 

God, you drank just the wrong amount of alcohol. Too much to think straight, not enough to be really drunk. And you left the bottle in the cab, so you can't even fix that. 

By the time you get back to the apartment (your apartment, not Bro's; that whole place was declared a crime scene, they let you go in to get your things and that was all) the high you get from fighting is completely gone. You're hurting, your head's spinning, and as soon as you get the door closed and locked behind yourself you lean against it and let yourself sink to the floor, pulling your knees up to your chest and grabbing a fistfull of your hair with each hand. 

This is the bad part. This is the worst part. This is the price you pay for feeling good, feeling like you're in control for even a fucking second when you don't deserve to feel anything but awful. This—

"Dave?" 

What the _fuck,_ somebody's here, who—

The lights flick on. You're already on your feet, still ready to fight even if you'd probably lose to anybody determined, but the guy standing by the switch just looks confused as fuck. Lil' bit horrified, too. 

And you know him. You know this fucking troll, even if you've only seen him in the pictures he's sent you over the years you still know that messy hair and short horns, you know that fucking face. Why is he here? _How_ is he here? Karkat's on Alternia, he's been telling you that his adoptive dad's thinking about coming to earth but—

"Holy fucking shit, Dave," he says, staring at you with wide shocked yellow eyes, and you realize that you're still in a fighting stance. Like you're gonna hit him. 

"Fuck." It comes out raspy, and you slide back down the door to curl up on the floor again. " _Fuck_." 

You don't look up even as you hear him come to kneel down next to you. He's not supposed to _be_ here. Karkat's the one fucking constant in your life, that he's there when you message him, even if he can't be here in person because he's on Alternia he's talked you through most of the fucked up shit in your life without even knowing you're using him as a reason to keep going. He doesn't _know_ how fucked up you are. 

He can't be here. 

He's here. 

Oh, god. 

"You're bleeding," Karkat says, trying to pull you up to sit like a person instead of a damn ragdoll. "Dave, what the _fuck,_ what happened? If it's your fucking bro—" 

"Not Bro." You want to stay how you are and continue to have a fucking mental crisis, but you can't scare Karkat any more than he is already, so you straighten up and sit up, glance at him for one second and look away again when you see the look on his face. You don't have a name for that expression—something like pity, something like concern, you've seen it directed at you before and it hurts almost as much as your injuries do. "Some highblood. Dyveik. Fucked him up worse." 

"A fucking _highblood_?" Karkat's voice goes screechy with disbelief on the last word, but he nods as he notices the blue stains on your hands and shirt. Then he sighs, shakes his head, and starts muttering in Alternian as he tries to pull you to your feet. " _First time I see my fucking moirail, and he's got himself beat half to death..._ " 

"I'll be fine—" Your voice gives out on that last word, turning it into a pained gasp as Karkat's hand brushes against your side where Dyveik clawed you. " _Shit—_ since when am I your moirail?" 

Karkat's head tilts as he looks over at you, eyes wide and surprised again. It occurs to you that you're gonna get blood on him with how much you're clinging to him, but you're too unsteady to do anything else. "Since always, asshole. But when the fuck did you learn to speak Alternian?" 

"Long story...you wanna come back when I'm not drunk and concussed, have me tell you then?" Damn. You're going to have to let go of him in order for him to leave, aren't you. 

You do not let go of Karkat. 

" 'Concussed' is bad, right?" he asks, looking you over again and shifting his grip to support you better. "Don't you have hospitals and shit on this fuckhole planet, or do you all just die?" 

"Fuck you, I don't need a hospital. And what the hell are you even doing on this fuckhole planet? Like, in my goddamn apartment?" You have, for the moment, sublimated your need to have a breakdown, but it's definitely still present, and a little bit of it breaks through in the way you can't keep your voice steady as you ask that question. 

"Dad finally got his shit together and moved us all over here." He shrugs, gently pulling you further into the apartment, towards the open door that leads to the bathroom. "I had your address from sending you packages and shit; I figured I'd give you a fucking birthday surprise or some shit." The wry look he gives you makes you smother a laugh, which hurts enough to start your eyes watering. "I'm guessing you had a fucking awful birthday so far." 

"Actually? Better than usual." Okay, _now_ you do have to untangle yourself from him so you can look at yourself in the mirror. 

Your current appearance can be summed up with one word: yikes. 

To elaborate, you're still covered in blood, there's bruises across most of your visible skin under said blood, your shirt has one sleeve ripped off, there's blue smeared across the vicinity of your mouth—you're seriously beginning to wonder how the hell you didn't get asked about this shit coming home—and your nose is, unfortunately, still really fucking broken. 

Dammit. 

"Yo, Karkat?" 

"Yeah?" 

"How about you go in the other room for a while?" 

In the mirror, you see his reflection raise an eyebrow. "Why, exactly?" 

"I'm gonna do something gross." You take a deep breath and very carefully touch your face. Yep, that hurts like hell. 

"What kind of gross?" 

"Blood gross. Shoo." And of course he doesn't fucking move. Goddamnit. 

Well, you kind of need to do this right now, before you lose your fucking nerve. So you bite down on your lip so he won't hear you whimper over this shit, and stare at your reflection in the mirror as you push at your nose until it's pretty much how it's supposed to be. 

This leads to _more_ blood dripping down your face. Plus enough pain that you realize that you've bitten through your lip again. 

Your mouth. Is full of blood. 

Shit, shit, _shit._

"Dave, what—" Karkat starts, going quiet as you make a choked noise and shove past him. You have no idea if trolls throw up like humans, but he seems to have some idea what the fuck's going on anyway. 

You fully expect him to leave. This shit's disgusting, you're a mess, and you're also not totally sure that he's here at all. Maybe you got hit hard enough that you're hallucinating all this shit. Maybe you snapped and this is all a delusion. You don't know. 

Also, you hate puking and your throat feels like it's on fire. 

It still takes you a while to stop. 

When you flush the toilet and drag yourself over to sit with your back against the wall, Karkat _is_ gone. That state of affairs lasts maybe a minute and a half, though, before he steps back into the room and sits down next to you, offering you a cup of water. 

"Why the hell are there swords in the cabinets?" he asks as you take a careful sip of the water. "All the orientation shit for earth said we didn't need weapons here." 

"Nah, you don't." Is it okay for you to reach for his hand? Fuck, you hope it is, because you need tangible proof that it's him. Stupid, but... "I'm, uh...they're there. Because. Of reasons." His skin's warmer than a human's, rough calluses almost like yours on the palm, bright red nails that thicken into claws that remind you of some kind of reptile, you don't know what kind. 

"Dave, hey." Karkat doesn't sound upset about how you're tracing your fingers across his hand, but you still pull your hands away guiltily. "Let me clean you up." 

"What—" Nah, you know what he means. You don't understand why he wants to be here for this at all, though. But... "Yeah, man. I think—think I could use some help right now." 

Karkat nods and reaches over to very carefully start removing what's left of your shirt.

* * *

It's stupid, but you cry. Not because washing the blood off hurts (it does) but because he's fucking _gentle,_ when you don't expect or deserve gentle, and he doesn't say one fucking word about how many goddamn scars you have even though you know he notices them. There's no other reason for him to falter so many times as he cleans you off. You cry, and you talk at him and to yourself and you have absolutely no idea what you say. 

Karkat seems to be okay with whatever it is. He cleans up the mess, gets you to drink more water and apple juice and some tea that you have no fucking idea where he got (maybe Rose brought it?), gets you dressed again and in the other room. 

At this point, you're more-or-less not connected to what's going on. This is normal for you with a concussion. (Why the hell is there a normal for you with a concussion. Why are you like this.) 

Anyway, you don't want Karkat to go. To the point where you beg him not to leave you, that you end up sobbing and latched onto his hand as he tries to get you to lie down. It's fucking stupid, you're being an idiot, and the logical corner of your mind knows that. 

Since you can't actually _stop,_ the logical part of your brain decides to fuck right off, meaning you either pass out or black out. 

Either way, he's still there when you wake up again. You're still in pain, but it's less overwhelming and immediate, and Karkat's curled up in a pile of blankets on the floor, asleep. 

You stare down at him for a couple minutes, and come to a decision. Well, maybe more of a realization. An admittance of something you've been told, repeatedly, for the whole space of time since Bro was arrested and D took custody of you. 

Shit's going to be okay.


End file.
